


pour up

by incendir



Series: alive [1]
Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendir/pseuds/incendir
Summary: in his profession, nights like this - a broken-hearted clubgoer stumbling in looking for a night to forget - must be a dime a dozen.





	

The night Minho first sees him is the night Minho finds out the love of his life has been cheating on him for the past month, if not longer - the night the love of his life leaves him without looking back. Minho is twenty-one, utterly heartbroken, wasted, and earlier today, he finally turned in his leave of absence form to his university without telling his parents. He barely remembers how he even ended up in this particular club - he just remembers that the night had begun as a bar crawl he’d taken himself out on, intent on drinking away every single moment that had gone wrong that day.

He doesn’t remember how he happened to wander into this specific club nor does he remember why he comes up to the DJ booth with a drink in hand, and a forward request on his lips. He barely remembers slurring out the question in probably the most crass phrasing he has ever and will ever have used. He faintly remembers getting the response telling him to wait for the two hours remaining in the shift, the back of the bar a meeting place if Minho is still around by then.

Minho remembers most easily, most sharply, the sight of him in the booth, one ear covered with his headphones, and the other free to gauge the crowd - a smile on the man’s full lips as his fingers fly over the knobs of his deck, body moving to the bass. The air in the club is warm from all the moving bodies, and there’s a faint sheen of perspiration just visible at the tips of his dark hair, curling slightly over his eyes and against the sides of his face. He remembers vividly the brightness of the other man’s eyes when their gazes lock, and the DJ leans over the edge of the booth to ask, a low, soothing voice that is equal parts playful and sincerely sympathetic, “Did she dump you or cheat on you?”

“He,” Minho recalls replying, surprised to hear how brisk is tone is for how utterly smashed he is, “and both.”

Minho doesn’t remember the rest of the night.

He wakes up the next morning in a bed and apartment that are both decidedly not his own with a naked stranger tangled in the sheets beside him, sleeping deeply on his stomach with his face turned away. Minho’s head is splitting and he slips off the bed carefully, gathering his clothes quickly in silence. He debates leaving a note or at least putting his number into the man’s phone but decides that there really isn’t any point and his life has already gone to shit as it is right now. He doubts the other man will care all too much anyway - tonight probably meant far less to the DJ than it did to even Minho. In the other man’s profession, nights like this - a broken-hearted clubgoer stumbling in looking for a night to forget - must be a dime a dozen.

 

* * *

 

He returns to the club a week later.

He has no reason to, and he’s surprised he even remembered enough about the club to be able to find it again, but in some sort of twisted turn of events, as the days passed after that night, parts of Minho’s memory of the events that followed after Minho climbed into the taxi after that DJ began to return - recollections of full lips, low sighs, dark eyes, long legs and even longer fingers that fisted into the sheets as Minho pushed in.

Minho isn’t sure exactly what he came here for - whether he finds the man or not- he’s in no place to be in a relationship, and a one-night stand isn’t exactly solid grounds to start a friendship off of. He also hasn’t won himself any points by disappearing the next morning without so much as a note. He supposes then that he could at least offer that, if nothing else - an apology about having the worst morning-after etiquette, and whether the man accepts it or chooses to rightfully roll his eyes and wave Minho off, at the very least, Minho can get a drink before he leaves.

Since the worst night of his life, not much has improved other than the fact that due to good timing, his parents still haven’t found out about him withdrawing from university.

He still hasn’t heard back from Kyungmin - neither an apology nor an explanation. There’s only so much time until his parents or Kyungmin’s have another function and they’ll have to see each other, and Minho would rather have sorted out whatever it is between them before that happens to avoid any painful situations on anyone’s part.

(He doesn’t think about how, if Kyungmin had called, at any time this week - at any time in the next week or the week after that or the month after - Minho would probably still take him back in a heartbeat.)

Minho can see who is in the DJ booth once he’s halfway towards the front of the floor, and he walks up there with his hands in his pockets, no drink, and stands to wait until the young man looks away from his turntable long enough to notice him. The current song ends, and the man starts another one up before he pushes his headphones down completely onto his neck, reaching out to take a drink from his glass. His eyes lock with Minho’s at the same time that he takes a sip.

“Mr. Bang-and-Run,” the man says coolly, but his smile is warm. Minho can’t detect any resentment, fortunately, and some of the tension in his body bleeds away at the realization. The man’s lips are as full as Minho remembers them being that night, the color of them almost a stained dark pink, and Minho thinks about how he must have kissed them that night - and what an intense shame it was that he, for the life of him, doesn’t remember what they felt like against his own mouth.

“I usually don’t operate like that,” Minho responds apologetically, letting himself offer a sheepish smile.

The man puts his drink down and leans in over the edge of the booth, arms resting on the ledge until their faces are close enough that Minho can see each perspiration-plastered lock of the man’s hair against his pale skin. Another regret - Minho thinks - that he doesn’t remember how he must have carded his fingers through that hair, and what this face must have looked like panting beneath Minho. “I’ll take your word for it,” the man says, and up close, he smells like heat and vodka and smoke.

Minho looks up into the man’s eyes, so different than the sharp, familiar ones he’s used to gazing into. “I must’ve been good, then,” Minho says, tone light and teasing, but he watches carefully for the other man’s reaction. He gets raised eyebrows followed by an amused light dancing through the man’s eyes.

“Is that why you came back?” the DJ asks. “A firsthand report on how you are in bed when you’re trashed?”

“Actually,” Minho steps up onto the small platform step at the base of the booth, putting his face level and even closer to the other man’s. There’s something to be said about how the DJ doesn’t move back even an inch, despite a flash of surprise grazing over his face at Minho’s sudden movement. Minho grips the ledge for balance and so that his arms now frame the DJ’s. “I was wondering if you’d let me buy you a drink.”

He realizes what he’s said only after the words have left his mouth and after the other man’s expression morphs from one of faint surprise to outright amusement. “Didn’t you just break-up with someone a week ago?”

That stings more than Minho will ever admit - mainly because he isn’t a teenager anymore and it’s embarrassing enough that he’s been a living shell of a human being for the past seven days without anyone bringing attention to it. “You can’t make new friends after getting dumped?” Minho asks with forced lightness.

Something shifts in the other man’s expression - something appearing behind the amusement and playfulness that Minho actively ignores because it makes him uncomfortable how this stranger can already read Minho. “D’you remember when my shift ends?” the man says, and his smile is too soft for Minho’s liking - he’d rather the bright grin return.

“Two hours - I’ll see you behind the bar?” Minho echoes the words from that night, and that gets him a laugh and a cheerful nod.

The DJ has already taken up his headphones again, about to put them back over his ears when Minho stops mid-turn from where he’s already stepped down from the platform, realizing a fairly important detail he’s missing even after that exchange.

He hops back onto the ledge with just one foot, pulling himself with a hand curled towards the inside of the deck, and the DJ’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes blinking again in surprise when he sees Minho abruptly returning when he’d just seen Minho walking away.

“What’s your _name_?” Minho says, unable to keep out of his tone laughter of the incredulousness of the question itself.

The other man seems to think the timing and context just as humorous as Minho because he also breaks into a moment of laughter, the open-mouthed, eye-curving sort that somehow makes Minho’s grin even wider. “Seungyoon,” he says, “and I know Bang-and-Run is just your first name -”

“Song Minho -”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, Song Bang-and-Run,” Seungyoon says to Minho’s stupefied expression.

“I’m going to spit in your drink,” Minho manages to get in before Seungyoon closes his headphones over his ears with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> of course, inspired by DJ!ksy from the webdrama


End file.
